Murder Virus

By Shawn C Baker

A pandemic of violence floods the streets of major cities as cases of the media-dubbed "Murder Virus" MV-20 soar, causing those infected to go on killing sprees.

Caught in the middle, Police Detective Angela Miller finds her only trustworthy ally in the self-proclaimed psychic P.I. Gerald Henry. As the two try to navigate the v

• Language: English
• Publisher: Horror Vision Press
• Release date: Mar 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733410786

Book preview

Chapter 1

Stepping over the corpse of a college kid dressed in blue flannel and jeans, Detective Angela Miller entered the crime scene. The shooter's bullets had perforated the kid's clothing and the flesh beneath, leaving a veritable pool of blood.

All that from one body?

Floor's canted, Jim Allen answered, pointing further into the building. Jim looked like the textbook definition of a cop - medium height, medium build, clean-shaven with a gym teacher's haircut and a single tattoo of a shark on his forearm. He exuded authority. The two had been partners for just over three years, not counting six months off in the middle while Miller was on leave. Angela followed Jim's line of sight to where five other bodies lay torn to shreds at the coffee bar. Miracle of miracles, the victims were all still on their stools, slumped face down on the counter, leaking viscera like five bottles of ketchup turned upside down. The blood had cooled, its color the grayish-brown that told the detectives they'd missed the party by just long enough for the trail to grow cold.

A tall officer named Sharp who had already introduced himself as one of the first-responders approached Angela with a smile. Angela knew what she looked like: a little rough-around-the-edges, manic, but her six-foot height and sleek build cemented her as something of an icon in the department. Most thought she looked more like an actress playing a cop than an actual cop. Anyone who underestimated her because of this, however, inevitably regretted it.

Angela could be quite mean.

Coffee any good here? Sharp asked, glib affectation in the face of horror.

Any witnesses? Angela asked, ignoring his tastelessness.

None still livin'.

Anyone get away?

Not sure.

There a back door? Jim asked, irritated. Angela sighed; Jim didn't like when other cops skipped over him to ask her questions, no matter how inane. Was it protective impulse or jealousy? Angela would have safely played her money on a combination of the two.

In the kitchen, I'm assuming.

Assuming? Gold star to the Millennial cop.

With an exaggerated flourish of disdain, Jim passed Sharp close enough that for a second, Angela thought he would clip the kid with his shoulder. His restraint maintained by a hair, Jim disappeared behind the counter and into the rear of the store.

Back door, he shouted a moment later. Angela smiled apologetically at Sharp and followed her partner.

They found two more bodies in the back, one in the stock room, a twenty-something-year-old guy riddled with holes from automatic gunfire, the other a girl, maybe thirty. She lay half in, half out the back door, garbage strewed around her in a perimeter of chaos. Angela stepped over a banana peel and out the back door to where Jim stood by the dumpster.

Looks like someone was taking the garbage out when the party started.

Emerging into the dingy concrete daylight, Angela stopped cold at Jim's discovery. A final body sat up against the dumpster, the top of its face torn to tissue paper, brains blasted across the dilapidated metal, an AR-15 still clutched in the man's hand. On the faded red brick wall beside the body, scrawled in what looked like neon paint:

KILL FOR THE SAKE OF KILLING

Guess our guy only feels comfortable traveling in a group, eh?

That's disrespectful, Angela.

Oh, fuck you, Jim.

Whatever. Help me get this shit under control.

Jim covered for her, and Angela cut out early. She hadn’t slept in days, had reached a critical point with her insomnia. At 4:15 PM, she parked her car in the garage beneath her building. She didn’t arm the alarm; it had been touchy of late, and the last thing she needed was complaints going to the super if it went off during the night. Angela was already on the outs with most of her neighbors.

By the time she stepped out of the elevator on the seventh floor, she’d already let her shoulder-length auburn hair down and swallowed a Vicodin. She passed a mirror in the hallway and saw bags under her eyes; the natural blue of her irises looked faded and vague, her cheekbones extra sharp. Angela hadn’t been eating much, and her skin had a yellow tint to it.

That’s it, she said, telling herself she’d get some sleep even if she had to put herself into a coma to do so.

The door on the apartment kitty-corner from her’s was ajar, and as she passed, Angela heard voices from inside. Hardly aware she was doing it, she stopped and peered through the opening. These neighbors were new, had only been in the building a few weeks, but since arriving, she’d already filed several complaints on them for noise and cigarette smoke. In the sliver of interior afforded to her by the open door, she saw a small man in an old suit. He smoked a cigarette, a magazine folded in his lap. Sensing her intrusion, the man’s eyes rolled up and met hers.

See anything you like? he said and smiled.

You know this is a no-smoking building, right?

The man’s smile flipped over, and he was on his feet and at the door a moment later. Watching him walk was like staring at an Armadillo flipped onto its back, tiny legs pumping.

Fuck you, bitch.

Yeah? she said, but the door slammed tight in the jamb before Angela could deliver a retort.

She entered her apartment and kicked off her shoes. Another one of those days.

Around midnight Angela's cell woke her on the couch. Her head felt thick, mushy with wine and pills, but when she saw the text from Jim, Angela roused instantly.

Our shooter's a student at the Community College near the scene. Johnson Hughs. 25. Here's a link to his social media profiles.

Had Jim been working this late, or had he held the information until just before he turned in for the night, hoping she wouldn't see it until morning? Angela guessed option two; ever since she'd returned from leave, Jim had become notorious for plying her with help she didn't need. 

A good plan, Jimmy, she said to the darkened room, but you forgot. I don't sleep.

Angela fired up her laptop and began to dig into Johnson Hughs.

Chapter 2

J esus, Angela, you look terrible. Did you sleep at all?

Don't you worry your pretty little head, Jimmy. I feel fine. What's more, I think I found something in Hughs's social media.

This fucking planet. Jesus, psycho killers, and social media.

Qu'est-ce que c'est.

Fa fa fucking fa. What'dya got?

Well, facefuck is a wash. Looks like Johnson had joined so many other psychos and migrated exclusively to tweeting his bullshit at the world.

Captain Tavares barreled into the office, his ornery demeanor firmly intact.

Miller, Allen. My office. Now.

Hope whatever you have is enough to calm him down. Van Houten says Cap's in 'extra cunt mode' today.

Everyone's in extra cunt mode around Van Houten. He's a cunt.

Angela took a quick detour to top off her coffee and then followed Jim into the Captain's office.

Shut the door behind you.

Captain, I think I found something on our shooter's social media profile.

You what?

Tavares drilled his eyes into Jim with enough force to suggest he might be trying to make him burst into flames.

"So she doesn't know. That means what, Jim? You did not relay my message to your partner yesterday because she wasn't really on the phone when I asked you where she was at Three O'Clock. Were you home, Miller? At the bar, perhaps?"

Angela threw Jim a look, but he remained focused on the boss.

Look, she was tired. I thought she should go home, get some sleep. All we were doing at that point was waiting for an identity.

And yet you sent her the social media info. This is bullshit. Your partner needs time off, she asks me. Don't cover for her again. Clear?

Look, Dave-

Don't Dave me, Jim. Do I detect something more than professional concern? Because I turned my back on that shit once before and look where it put her. That will not happen again, capiche?

Hello. In the fucking room.

And thanks for showing up today, Miller. While you were at home yesterday catching up on your beauty sleep, District Attorney Valez visited to tell us the shooter just happens to be her stepson. She wants his profiles taken down before the press gets wind of their connection.

Excuse me? Since when do we help politicians hide the skeletons in their closets?

NOT open for debate, Miller. Besides, by the time you leave this office, Hughs's profiles will already be gone, so it's a moot point.

And?

And what?

And what the hell do we tell the public?

Oh, come on. No one's gonna bat an eye at another shooting on a college campus. Happens all the damn time, these days.

Jesus Christ, Dave, glad to know rubbing elbows with the District Attorney and her friends in city hall hasn't jaded you.

Angela, Jim had a hand on her arm; she shook it off.

No! fuck that. I have a lead.

He's a lone gunman, Miller.

Yeah? Well, I may have found information that contradicts that.

Jim, will you take your partner here out for a long breakfast and teach her the ways of the force before I suspend her for insubordination?

C'mon, Angela.

Dave-

Captain Tavares, Officer.

Captain? This? This is fucking bullshit. I hope you're right, but just so you know, you're not.

Today, Jim.

Goddamnit, Angela. C'mon.

S o you must'a found something good to get that angry.

"I found something. Look."

Angela pulled her phone from her jacket pocket.

His profiles are all down, remember?

Screenshots, rookie. Try it sometime.

Ha!

Angela passed Jim her phone.

What am I looking at here?

Okay. So this post here? The one with the hashtag?

It took a moment, then he saw it.

#KFTSOK?

Our graffiti? Kill for the sake of killing. It's the name of a book by this guy here. 

She took the phone back, juggled the windows to a live profile.

Abramelin Harvest? Never heard of him.

No reason you would have unless you're into his books.

I read. Lots of Horror, too. Barker, King. You name it.

I'm not talking about big box stuff. This guy publishes on Amazon, through a tiny company called Jonestown Books.

Christ.

Yeah. So flip back to the screenshot. See how our boy Hughs liked this post? Well, it's a link to an excerpt from Harvest's newest book. Guess what the title is.

Hug time in Puppy Town?

Kill for the Sake of Killing.

Light bulb.

So our boy Johnson gets mad at his DA step mommy and decides to emulate his favorite horror story.

The subtitle of the book? 'An exploration of macrocosmic surgical techniques to rid the world of the human disease.'

Jesus.

Wept. I was smart enough to save that link. Here, leaning over her partner's shoulder, Angela opened the browser on her phone. Long lines of text appeared.

How do these guys make any money if they give the thing away online? Jim said, scrolling through seemingly endless pages of text, Who the hell's gonna read this, anyway?

I did.

Seriously?

Yeah. It's… truthfully it's fascinating.

C'mon, Angela. The last thing I need is you finding religion on me.

Not likely. See how three other people liked this same post?

Friends of yours?

Haha. Watch, Angela took the phone, flipped around the screen for a moment and handed it back to Jim, That's one of the other users who liked it. Recognize that picture?

Should I?

Look closer. I'll wait.

Jim stared at the screen for a good thirty seconds before he got it.

Shit! This is that shooter in Iowa last week.

Bingo. Say hello to James Donald Rowland, number two of four people we know of Harvest's fanbase who've gone on a killing spree since this was posted.

That strike you as ominous?

It doesn't you?

Maybe I should read this, show it to Tavares.

I'll send you the link later. In the meantime, I found the address for Jonestown Books, thought we should take a ride.

We stop for coffee first?

Sure. You're buying.

What else is new?

Jonestown Books sat in a building on the outskirts of Downtown Los Angeles, in an old warehouse that had been converted into alternative workspaces. The kind of place where artists rented studios or bands practiced late into the night. Angela drove while Jim attempted to read the excerpt from Abramelin Harvest's book on her phone. After fifteen minutes motionless on the 110, he set the phone down and rubbed his temples.

Trouble?

Never been able to read in the car. Gives me a headache.

Twenty minutes later they parked on 7th street and made their way to the building, which was in a small alley. The afternoon sun crested the tops of the buildings, empty condo units stacked across the horizon like dominoes, converted real estate that would probably end up section eight in five years, instead of fodder for the yuppie appetite the developers had hoped to exploit.

Never ceases to amaze me. All the money in this city and it's still the filthiest downtown area in the entire fucking country.

Yeah, Angela responded, watching a homeless man chase a rat the size of a small dog. The rodent led the man through a mountain of debris packed against the fence of a nearby parking lot; it looked like a wave of garbage had broke and rolled back, leaving piles of trash in its wake. 

Not a fan of DTLA. I've got a cousin that lived in one of these. Thought it was an investment in the city's future.

How'd that work out for her?

She was attacked in an alley. Sold the place and moved to Kansas.

Wow.

They walked to the door, a simple glass number with a logo and the words Jonestown Publications stenciled at eye level. It was locked. There was no buzzer. 

Probably don't get many visitors, Jim said and rapped hard on the glass. They could hear the percussive sound echo out in a big, empty room.

Think it's a front?

Who knows? I guess we're not going to find anything here.

Behind them, the homeless man had stopped paying attention to the rat, shifted his focus to the two detectives.

I think we're creating a stir.

It's your sense of fashion, Jim said. He shined his flashlight through the glass door.

Hey, I think I see something in there.

Really? Angela asked, still watching behind them. Five homeless men - one of them over seven feet tall - had moved into a half-circle around them.

What's that zombie show everyone loves? I saw an episode once, kinda looked like this.

Angela, someone's in there. POLICE! Open the door.

Angela turned and strained her eyes to follow Jim's light past the glass. She saw someone move, but the room was dark.

What are they doing in the dar- Something lifted a strand of her hair, and she spun, caught the arm of the seven-foot homeless man in her left hand and drew her firearm with her right.

Back the fuck up, dude!

"If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. If snow be white ¹-"

Jim trained his piece on the advancing bums, his eyes wide with that, how-did-we-get-here look of surprise.

You heard the lady. Back the fuck up. 

The bum let Angela's hair fall and retreated a quick three steps, bowed at the waist while continuing his recitation.

-why then her breasts are dun. Coral is far more red than her lips and…

Behind them, a loud CLACK caused both detectives to spin. A short, black-haired woman of about forty stood holding the door open.

Can I help you?

Detectives Miller and Allen. LAPD. We need to come in and ask you a few questions…

I'm just the cleaning woman. I don't work for-

Doesn't matter. Won't take long, 'kay? Jim said and forced his way in. Angela followed, relieved to shut the door behind them.

Chapter 3

T hat was fucked up.

Right? Jim said, holstering his weapon and fixing his stare on the cleaning woman. He seemed as jumpy as Angela after the encounter.

All bums around here quote Shakespeare? Or just the giant ones?

Got me, the cleaning lady said, clearly unsettled by their intrusion, I'm not supposed to let anyone else in here while I'm working. I could lose my job.

Relax. Anyone asks, we'll speak to them, Angela said, showing the woman her badge.

What's your name?

Carrie O'Sullivan.

Okay, Carrie. Do you work for the building or an outside vendor?

Vendor. Spotless Vistas.

Awkward name, no?

Their boat, I just row.

How long you been cleaning this particular building?

I only do this office, probably last six months.

Did somebody else do it before that?

I guess, but if they worked for us, I wouldn't know.

You girls don't trade stories?

Never met anyone else on the staff. It's like Uber - there's an app, when you get hired you put it on your phone, the company uses it to assign you clients.

Interesting.

So, do you always do this particular office?

Like I said, for the last six months. I do this one, a couple homes in Baldwin Hills, and a diner in Inglewood.

Wow. They keep you moving, huh?

I guess. It's LA, what do you expect?

Point. So, you ever meet anyone that works for Jonestown Books?

The owner. Nice lady. Guinevere Speck. Gave me a Christmas bonus.

Angela turned to look back out onto the street. Their friends had dispersed.

Wow. That must'a come in handy, eh?

Carrie made a point of dismissing Jim's comment with her eyes, fixed her attention on Angela.

This going somewhere? I really need to finish and get on with it.

Just a few more questions about Miss Speck. You read any of the stuff she publishes?

Nope. I'm studying to pass the Bar, don't have time for reading anything but law journals.

Wow. No shit? A cleaning lady who wants to be a lawyer. Don't that just beat all?

Angela elbowed her partner in the ribs and he lost his breath.

Damn. *Cough*

I'm sorry, Carrie. My partner's not usually such a condescending asshole. Thank you for speaking to us.

I'm sorry, okay? Jim said, holding his chest.

Angela turned to lead them through the door.

Hey, you guys talk to anyone else about Miss Speck yet?

No, why?

I was wondering if anyone mentioned when she's coming back.

Curiosity trumped Angela's embarrassment.

How long since you saw her last?

A while. It's fine, I have a key, I was just wondering if I should start trying to pick up another gig. You know, if they're closing or something. I don't think anyone but me's been here in at least a month.

Jim met Angela's eyes. The shape of something terrible was forming around them, they just couldn't see it yet.

You have a card, Carrie? In case we find anything out.

Give ya my cell number.

Perfect.

S o what do we have?

They were stuck on the 110 again. The sun had vanished, and the temperature had dropped to a chilly fifty-seven.

An author with a provocative book. Four people on social media who acknowledged liking it, two of whom became spree shooters. A potentially missing publisher.

Don't forget the seven-foot-tall bum who quotes Shakespeare.

Sounds like a lotta conjecture tying this together. We don't go somewhere with this soon, we'll be catching again.

Might be a good thing. Look, I'm gonna drop you at your ride and head home. I haven't been sleeping.

Angela-

"You didn't let me finish, Jim. I haven't been sleeping well, okay?"

Okay. Just remember, you promised you'd let me know if it started happening again.

"And I will. If it happens. Which it won't."

"The